


Five Days In Fall

by squidgie



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald decides to surprise Timothy the day before Thanksgiving, planning a few things that Timothy's always wanted to do, but they've never managed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Days In Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fall Don & Timmy 'thon community on LJ. Betaed by the wonderful selenic76 - All remaining mistakes my own

  
"Rise and shine, sweetheart," Donald says as he gets out of bed.  He leans down and kisses Timothy's forehead while his fingers play through the nest of fur on his chest, lingering to tweak a nipple lightly, earning a bit of a gasp from the slumbering man.  
  
Timothy barely opens his eyes, and reaches up, taking Donald's hand in his own and kissing the palm.  "Donald, darling," he says through a jaw-cracking yawn.  "It's _way_ too early.  Especially since we both have the next few days off."  Donald presses another kiss to Timothy's forehead and walks toward the bathroom as he hears his husband burying himself beneath the covers.  
  
After turning on the water in the shower - the remodeled shower that he'd made sure would comfortably fit both men at once - he pads back to the bedroom.  "Up and at 'em, sunshine," he says, pulling at the covers in an effort to rouse his sleepy husband.  
  
"Donald William Strachey," comes a growl from underneath the blankets.  "If you pull away these blankets, so help me God-"  
  
Donald pulls off the blankets.  _And_ the sheets.  The whole mess of fabric lands at the foot of the bed with a muffled thud.  
  
"What're ya gonna do to me, huh?" Donald challenges, a broad grin spreading across his face.  
  
Shivering at the cold, Timothy quickly jumps up from the bed and chases Donald into the bathroom, following him into the shower, saying, "Close the door!  Close the door!  It's _freezing_!" as he gets under the warm spray.  
  
"Took you long enough," Donald says, pulling Timothy to him.  He leans in, morning breath be damned, and kisses his husband as warm water pours over them both.  Then he lets his hands settle on Timothy's ass and cradles his head on his shoulder, standing there basking in the moment.  
  
"Uh, Donald?" he asks.  
  
Looking up, Donald replies, "Yeah?" and smile at the twinkle in Timothy's eyes before he grabs a kiss and puts his head back on Timothy's shoulder.   
  
"You mind telling me _why_ you got us up at 5:30am on the first day of our five day weekend?" Timothy asks.  
  
Donald avoids responding and instead ducks his hair under the water, then moves Timothy under the stream and grabs the shampoo, pouring out a generous amount into his palm and then rubbing it into Timothy's thick hair, letting his fingers massage Timothy's scalp as the shampoo creates a rich lather of bubbles.  "Because, my dear Timothy, _we_ have a busy schedule to keep," he finally responds.  
  
"Busy..." Timothy sputters, then stops.  "What are we-"  
  
Donald pushes Timothy under the stream of water, cutting off the man's questions as the bubbles cascade down his arms and chest.  Timothy wipes at his eyes as Donald continues to run his fingers through Timothy's wet hair, getting all the suds out.  
  
Satisfied, Donald turns, leaning back into Timothy, wriggling just enough to bring some life back to Timothy's cock.  "Do me, now," he says, turning back to waggle an eyebrow at Timothy.   
  
"Do me, or _do me_?" Timothy husks.  
  
Turning, Donald kisses him again and says, "Well, I _did_ get us up fifteen minutes earlier than absolutely necessary.  You know, in case you wanted to return the favor from last night..."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Albany's temperatures have been mostly mild, though the days leading up to Thanksgiving bottomed out a bit, leaving the ground covered with frost, a hint of ice on the roads, and a crispness to the air.  Donald avoids answering _any_ of Timothy's questions, giving him only generalizations.  The only question he answers is when Timothy asks, "Weren't we supposed to have a quiet Thanksgiving at home?", to which he replies, "Naah..."  
  
Donald takes the exit off the highway marked, "Airport  & Train Station" and reaches over to smack the heater in his oft-malfunctioning car when Timothy blows warm air into his hands.  "Darling," Timothy asks, a questioning tone to his voice.  " _Please_ tell me we aren't going to fly somewhere today.  Even if we _were_ going to Washington, and don't get me wrong because it would be wonderful to spend the holiday with Mother, but flying on the day before Thanksgiving is supposed to be absolute chaos."  
  
"Nope, we're not flying anywhere," Donald says, furthering his argument by pointing at the signs for Albany International Airport as they drive past.  "Train."  
  
"Oh, the train," Timothy says with a longing sigh.  "I _love_ taking the train.  So relaxing, just sitting there in the coach, losing yourself in the clacking of the wheels over the rails.  Reminds me of my childhood."  After a second, he adds, "Though you _know_ Albany to Washington, DC will take probably seven or eight hours."   
  
"Not going to Washington, sweetheart," Donald says as he pulls up to the Amtrak station.  Timothy gives him a curious look, but Donald just ignores it.  He parks the car (which sputters and then backfires, further cementing in his mind that driving was _completely_ out of the question) and gets out, grabbing their suitcase, and then waits for Timothy to join him.  He puts down the suitcase long enough to help pulls Timothy's scarf tighter to fight off the cold, and reaches out his hand, Timothy taking it into his before he picks up the case again.   
  
Before Donald can respond to Timothy's questioning look, a station workers yells, "Now boarding train 236, Empire Service to New York City.  All aboard!"  And the look that Donald gives Timothy betrays away his first secret.  
  
~*~*~  
  
The train is a bit packed, even for having business class seats, though the couple find a more secluded section to sit in. Donald lets Timothy take the window and sits down beside him, holding his husband's hand as he stares out the window.  After a long while, and after they've worked their way through most of a bottle of champagne that Donald ordered as a waiter came through, Timothy asks, "So why New York City?"  
  
"You'll see," is all Donald says.  
  
Cocking his head to the side, and putting on a fake pout, Timothy tries again with, "But Donald..."  
  
Sighing, Donald raises an eyebrow to counteract his husband's pout.  "Listen," he says, bringing Timothy's hand up to his mouth and kissing the knuckles.  "I just...  You do _so much_ for me that I thought...  Well...  That I could do a little something for you; something you've wanted to do for a long while.  At least just this once."  
  
Furrowing his brow, Timothy starts to ask, "So what're we-"  
  
Donald cuts the question off with a kiss.  "No more questions, sweetheart," he says, then squeezes Timothy's hand, as his plans for their next few days runs through his head.  
  
Timothy nods and turns back to the window, and the pair watches as the world goes whizzing by.  
  
Two hours later the train pulls into Penn Station in New York City and Donald pulls their suitcase from the overhead bin. He guides Timothy off the train and through the maze of the massive station, then out into the crowded city.  He checks his bearings and realizes where their hotel is, so he turns to Timothy.  "Feel like going for a walk?" he asks, remembering the hotel is just over a mile away, with plenty of sightseeing opportunities along the way.   
  
"After two hours on the train, not to mention the champagne going to my head, I could do with a walk," Timothy responds.  
  
"Good, good," is all Donald says in reply.  "This way," he says with a nod, and the pair head down 7 th Avenue.  
  
As they turn on West 48th Street, Timothy pulls at Donald's shoulder lightly and says, "Donald - look!  Look!" his gloved hand pointing towards a crowd of people.  "Rockefeller Center," Timothy says, joy evident in his voice and excitedly pointing at the crowd of people ice-skating in front of the giant Christmas tree, a few people staring at the golden statue of Prometheus.  
  
At this point, based on Timothy's reaction - the big smile on his face, and the way his eyes have lit up, the skin crinkling up next to his eyes, not hiding the man's emotion one whit - to just the start of the trip, Donald _knows_ he's made the right choices for this holiday.    
  
They bypass Rockefeller Center, Donald promising to go ice-skating with Timothy while they're in the city.  They continue down West 48 th Street until Donald starts to walk up to the entryway of the Waldorf Astoria.  "Donald.  _Donald_!" Timothy says in a voice just a touch louder than a whisper.  "Why are _we_ going in _there_?"  
  
A bellman pulls the door open, and Donald ushers Timothy inside.  When Timothy gives him _that look_ again, Donald just holds up a hand, as if to say, "It's okay," and guides Timothy up to the front desk to check in to their room.  "Reservation for Strachey," he says to the clerk.  
  
With a click of the keyboard, the smartly dressed woman says, "Yes.  Mister Donald Strachey and Mister Timothy Callahan?"  When Donald nods, she says, "We have your room ready.  Oh, and there's a note; will you excuse me one moment please?"  She heads to the back room, then returns a few seconds later with an envelope.  "Here are your parade tickets, Mister Strachey."  
  
"Parade tickets?" Timothy asks.  "We're going to a parade?  What parade?"  
  
The clerk just looks at Timothy, then Donald, curiously.  
  
" _Oh my God_ , we're going to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade!" Timothy almost shouts, nearly garnering everyone's attention.  "You got us tickets to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade?"  Grabbing the envelope and looking inside, he adds, "Very _expensive_ VIP tickets?  Donald..."  
  
The clerk looks at Donald nervously.  "I'm _very_ sorry, Mister Strachey; was that supposed to be a surprise?"  
  
Sighing, but grinning, because Timothy is practically vibrating with excitement (even if it _was_ with a hint of worry about the cost), Donald says, "It _was_..."  Years before, at their first Thanksgiving together, bundled up together on the couch in their tiny apartment, Timothy had confided in Donald that he'd wanted to see the parade in person from the time when he was little boy.  And every year since, Donald noted the wistful look on Timothy's face whenever the parade was shown on television.  He'd put some money away for a special occasion, and this trip was the most special of all.  
  
"I am _so_ sorry," the clerk replies.  "I know it's not much consolation, but please," she says, pulling a card from her desk drawer, "I'd like you to join us for dinner tonight in the hotel restaurant. Our treat." She writes something on the card and hands it over, then nods to a nearby bellman. "Franklin will show you to your room, Mister Strachey and Mister Callahan," she says, handing over the keys to Franklin.  
  
"Thank you so much," Donald replies, then grabs Timothy by the sleeve and follows the bellman to the elevator.  
  
Once ensconced in the elevator, Timothy stops vibrating just long enough to say, "Donald, darling, those tickets must have been _excruciatingly_ expensive, not to mention hard to come by."  Touching Donald on the shoulder, he asks, "Do I even want to know what you had to do to get them?"  
  
Smiling, Donald replies, "It wasn't a what, but more like a _who_ ," to which Timothy does a double take, and Franklin the bellman lets out the minutest of snorts, betraying his stoically businesslike demeanor.  "And before you assume anything, it was _Kenny_ that did the actual deed, _not_ me."  
  
"Oh, Kenny," Timothy says, shaking his head.  "Who _won't_ that boy do for free goods and services?"   
  
"Your floor, sirs," Franklin says before Donald can make a snappy comeback.  Once out of the elevator, Franklin says, "Right this way," and leads them down a tastefully decorated hallway.  He stops in front of a door, opening it and ushering the men inside.    
  
"Wow," both Timothy and Donald say in near unison as Franklin settles their suitcase on a nearby stand next to a large mahogany chest of drawers.  The word opulence would fall short in describing the room, though none of it gaudy.  Every inch of the suite was tasteful, and above all _expensive_ , from the chandelier hanging above the sitting area to the tapestry hanging on the wall, and the deep, luxurious carpeting beneath his feet.  Donald hopes he remembered to wipe his shoes before he walked into the hotel.   
  
"Will there be anything else, sirs?" the bellman asks.  "Would you like some assistance unpacking?  Or maybe you have some clothing you would like pressed?"  
  
"No, no, no," Donald replies.  "We're good."  He crosses the room and pulls out a five dollar bill, handing it over to the man.  "I think we'll stay in for a little bit; maybe take a little nap before we go exploring."  
  
"Very good, sir," Franklin replies.  He opens the door, pulling the 'Do Not Disturb' sign from the back of the door and affixing it on the front as a warning to anyone who might come by.  "And if you need anything, say clean sheets or additional towels after your _nap_ , please don't hesitate to call upon us."  
  
"Thank you!" Timothy calls, Donald echoing the sentiment a beat later and smiling when he sees a blush suffusing across his husband's face.  Franklin gives the couple the smallest of nods, and then disappears, shutting the door behind him. 

  
Timothy appraises the room as Donald checks out the bed, shoving off his overcoat and throwing it across a nearby chair, then toeing off his shoes before falling into the bed.  "Oh my god, honey," he says.  "Come try out the bed."  
  
After checking out the bathroom, (Donald once again smiling when he hears, "Would you look at this _bathtub_?"), Timothy joins Donald on the bed.  He lays down next to Donald, moaning satisfactorily at the comfort, then reaches down and grabs Donald's hand, taking it into his own.  The couple lays there for a moment, quiet in the still of the moment until there's a rustling sound, and Donald, who had closed his eyes, feels Timothy turning over, rolling on top of him, showing his appreciation with a deep, passionate kiss.    
  
Letting his fingers explore Timothy's backside, Donald groans into Timothy's mouth.  While the groan mostly comes from what Timothy is doing to him, a bit of it _is_ coming from opulence of the bed.  And while it _is_ the most comfortable bed Donald has _ever_ had the pleasure of laying down on, he's pretty sure, based on Timothy's reaction, that he won't be doing much sleeping during this trip.


End file.
